Watching on the Rhine

by Violet R. Markham

The fluctuation of the exchange is another matter in which the Army of Occupation takes a deep interest. We inquire with real concern daily as to the health of the mark, the caprices of which baffle most forecasts. These constant fluctuations in the value of money are very demoralising for every one concerned. Naturally such a situation is a premium on speculation, and for the German merchant and shopkeeper the lack of stability has disastrous consequences.

The real necessities of Germany to-day lie below the surface, and it is very difficult to associate at first sight any ideas of poverty or disaster with the crowds of well-dressed people in the streets. The overflowing population of the big German towns is very striking. It is hard to believe they have had any real losses in the war. Men, women, and children; children, women, and men: it is always the same story. The Germans are a very plain race; few of them have any pretensions to good looks. But, men and women alike, they are tall and powerfully built, and convey an outstanding impression of physical strength and vigour.

And what have they done with their wounded? That is a perpetual puzzle to the English. It is a matter of very rare exception to see a lamed, or maimed, or blinded man. One poor wreck without arms or legs who frequented the Höhe Strasse in a little trolley was a familiar figure. But the injured lads who have become too sad a feature of our town and village life seem to be non-existent here. Yet the heavy German casualties must have left their mark on the people. Why, therefore, are there so few signs of wounded men? I have heard it said that with the removal of the German military hospitals following on the Occupation, other arrangements had to be made for the disabled, and that many left the district. Whether this is true or not I cannot say. Germans are proverbially skilful at tucking out of sight all signs of their drunken and disreputable classes. Something of the same kind has happened apparently with the wounded. When one comes to the children, the toll of the war becomes apparent in a very different way. As regards adults, the superficial impression received is that neither physique nor population has suffered. I should add that all superficial impressions of German life to-day require to be discounted heavily. All the evidence goes to prove that the very real suffering in the country lies beneath the surface, and that the rich people and the profiteers who crowd shops and cafés give no true measure of the condition of the masses.

Overwhelmingly military though the aspect of Cologne in the early days of the Allied victory, the civilian character of the town has re-emerged, as during the course of months the great Army of the original Occupation has shrunk to a moderate garrison. To-day the impression is merely that of an English reserve in a foreign land. The garrison conducts itself, officers and ranks alike, after the ordinary fashion of garrisons all the world over. Work is done and done thoroughly; for the rest there are the normal amusements, dancing, sports, and games.

The Deutsches Theater, which is in English hands, has made a spirited and successful attempt to bring first-rate English drama within reach of the Occupying Army. But the greatest factor in recreation undoubtedly has been the Opera. The opportunity of hearing night after night the best music of all schools, classical and modern, is one for which we have had much cause to be thankful. The repertoire is not only large, but wholly catholic in spirit. No foolish demand exists to place French and Italian music under a ban: the Germans have the good sense to recognise that genius transcends all boundaries of race. The great classical masterpieces of Beethoven, Mozart, Gluck can be heard as well as those of Wagner, Strauss, and the lighter works of Puccini, Bizet, Massenet, Mascagni, Offenbach, Gounod. The performances of the Ring are particularly fine; and the passion of the Kapellmeister, Herr Klemperer, for Mozart makes the production of these exquisite operas specially interesting. If the Germans have not eyes to see, no nation in the world have ears so fine to hear. In matters musical they are doubly and trebly gifted—the whole artistic expression of the race appears to have found an outlet in this direction. The Cologne Opera House lives up to the best pre-war standards. There are no stars, but, what is infinitely preferable, a high level of ensemble and a unity of artistic expression between the singers and the instrumentalists which can never exist in scratch companies held together by celebrities. The scenery and staging are excellent and show real artistic merit of a kind unusual in Germany. The orchestra too is first-rate—a fine and flexible instrument in the hands of its conductor.

It is unfortunate that the English have to no small extent imported the bad English habit of talking during orchestral passages. In the early days of the Occupation not a sound was ever heard in the body of the house. As time went on a familiar and unpleasant murmur became from time to time more noticeable. Explanations as to the involved relationships of the Wagner heroes and heroines when sought and given in the course of a performance are peculiarly exasperating to other people in the near vicinity of the earnest inquirer. It is a curious sight during the intervals to see the German audience in couples promenading solemnly round the large “foyer” while the English and French look on. But even casual meeting-places between the two races are rare. Life in Cologne flows in two distinct channels, between which there is no communication of any kind. For the large majority of the English, Germans have no existence—what’s Hecuba to them or they to Hecuba? There is nothing aggressive about the British Occupation. The Army goes about its business, acts justly, and avoids unnecessary pinpricks and irritations. The bitterness of the war has left a considerable aftermath which colours conversation, but the inherent British sense of decency and fair play rules the situation in practice. It would offend that sense of fair play to keep kicking a man, however much disliked, when he was down and out.

The Germans on their side have learnt fully to appreciate the merits of the British rule. Well-to-do people have a lively sense of the protection and security afforded by the Occupying Army. The German bourgeoisie live in terror of the new might of the working-classes. Though the first impression on arrival may be one of comfort and prosperity, there is in fact but a very thin veneer of order covering anarchy below. Germans speak with dismay of the appalling increase in crime and theft since the war. Hunger is responsible for much of the petty pilfering which goes on, but it is clear that all manner of violent elements hide their heads out of fear and fear alone. The German police are responsible for the normal daily life of the town and area, but Thomas Atkins, good-natured and indifferent, is the power behind the throne, and it is thanks to his presence that the German writ runs and is obeyed among the Rhinelanders.

At the same time I am sceptical as to the spread of Bolshevist ideas on any large scale among the German nation outside certain industrial circles. The genius of the race is essentially law-abiding and orderly. If it is allowed to eat and to work, and is not kept artificially in a state of hunger and unemployment, the country will, I believe, in time settle down. Bolshevism is a disease drawing its strength from hunger and despair. It is only dangerous when such conditions exist or are provoked by a short-sighted policy of fear and reprisals. “Oh, I should like to see Germany go Bolshevist for a time and all the people killing one another,” was the genial remark I overheard once in England, the speaker being an English civilian. I do not think this wish will be gratified, but what the speaker and his kind forget is that Bolshevism is a disease which can be treated by no cordon sanitaire, and that the spread of ruin and confusion in Central Europe means that the same evil spectres will knock assuredly at our own doors. The fatal habit of “thinking war” still dominates whole classes of people throughout the Allied countries. But the business of the hour is peace, and to be a laggard about peace to-day is as criminal as to have been a laggard about war when Europe and civilisation stood menaced.

CHAPTER III
THE KÖLNER DOM

In the Wallraf-Richartz Museum, where, after the manner of German collections, pictures and antiques, both good and bad, jostle each other with small regard to quality, a series of modern frescoes execrable in colour and design decorate the main staircase. The artist has been at pains to cover the walls with various incidents, allegorical and otherwise, in the long history of Cologne. The final fresco is the most entertaining of the series. It represents the scene in 1842 when Frederick William IV. visited Cologne on a memorable occasion. In this year work was resumed on the ruined and neglected shell of the cathedral, and the citizens of Cologne dedicated themselves anew to the task of making a success of the failure of centuries. The King attended in person to inaugurate the great effort. Frederick William had many of the showy and histrionic qualities for which his great-nephew was conspicuous, and like William II. was by way of having a great deal of taste in artistic matters—most of it bad. Blessed with the gift of fluent speech, he adored ceremonial occasions, especially those on which he could pose before Europe as a patron of the Muses.